Easterleigh Hall at War

by Margaret Graham

  Dr Nicholls reported on the economic situation. The government paid three shillings per patient per day, and Lord Brampton paid an extra ninepence per patient per day; this sum was becoming insufficient. Lady Veronica had written to her father asking him to consider increasing his funding, as it had been his directive to set up the hospital. She had hinted that it could only enhance his reputation to be more generous, a generosity that might result in a second ammunition contract. So far there had been no reply.

  Evie reported on the demoralised patients who were, or were not, responding to personalised meals, Mrs Green’s problems with housekeeping and laundry were solved by shuffling around the volunteers and releasing more storage space in the basement. Mr Harvey outlined today’s administrative procedures; the head orderly, Sergeant Briggs, made a note of who would be leaving and what convoys of wounded were expected. The most pressing problem was left until last.

  ‘It’s the dressings,’ Matron declared, tapping her pencil on the table. ‘I said it yesterday and say it again today. Since the Battle of Neuve Chapelle began eleven days ago, convoys of wounded have been arriving steadily. Our dressings are diminishing, with a mere week’s worth left, and no more to be had for love nor money. Well, of course not, because demand has far exceeded expectation. It’s this damned war, it’s demanding too much from the suppliers, nothing is steady.’ She flung down her pencil and everyone watched as it rolled to the edge. Mrs Moore caught it just before it fell. In the background the furnace rumbled.

  Matron and Dr Nicholls then bickered over which Peter they could rob to pay Paul. Mrs Green and Mr Harvey argued over what linen could be ripped into bandages before being sterilised in the laundry, while Ver and Richard sat in sulky silence because Richard had just said, yet again, ‘I seem to have forgotten what it is we need, did someone say dressings?’

  To crown it all Millie slammed her mug down, slopping tea on to the table. ‘So, you want us to boil and sterilise strips of sheeting? You all seem to think the laundry has nothing better to do with its coppers than fulfil your requirements.’

  In the silence that fell, the tension threatened to overwhelm Evie. She felt a great heat, a boiling rage that roared until she could bear it no longer. Where the hell was Si? Why hadn’t Auberon telegraphed with his usual message of survival to Veronica so they knew all was well? And how could bloody Millie go on being such a typical cow? ‘Well, yes, that is, in general, the role of a laundry,’ she shouted, banging the table so that the wretched girl’s tea slopped again. The dogs woke, and barked once, then settled.

  Veronica’s kick caught Evie on the shin. Millie sniffed, glared, gathered up the tea towels, and left her tea for someone else to clear up as she slammed from the kitchen, along the corridor, and into the laundry where her minions were working hard, which was something she never quite managed.

  Evie’s mam, Susan Forbes, sat between Mrs Moore and Captain Richard, representing the needs of the children’s nursery. She shook her head at Evie before preventing Tim from bashing Captain Richard’s false leg with his toy car. The rage drained from Evie, leaving the gnawing, repetitive anxiety. They always heard after a battle, and not only that, Veronica heard weekly. Weekly, dammit. She forced herself to sit on her stool, when she wanted to be pacing. She listened to the worries, the irritations, she looked at Veronica’s furrowed brow, her mam’s too. She wasn’t the only one who was longing to hear; she must pull herself together.

  She made herself listen as her mam told Tim that on the next warm day they would go out for a picnic on the moor. She watched as her mam removed the car from Tim’s hand, smiling her apology at Captain Richard, who shook his head and ruffled Tim’s hair. The moor? Mrs Green and Matron discussed whether flowers were a good idea in the wards. ‘It’s extra work for the housemaids, and volunteers. We have to keep replacing the water,’ Mrs Green protested. Matron snatched back her pencil from Mrs Moore. ‘They induce calmness. They are light in the darkness.’ She was tapping the pencil again. ‘They are removed at night so the wards are not deprived of oxygen.’

  The moor? Her mam used to take them out to the moor when they were bairns. What was it they picked? Mrs Moore was pointing to the teapot, a question in her eyes. Evie took no notice. What was it? She remembered the cold of the . . . What?

  Veronica slapped her hand down on the table. ‘Enough about flowers. It’s the dressings that are the priority.’

  ‘Dressings?’ Captain Richard queried.

  ‘For God’s sake, Richard,’ Veronica shouted. The stockpot was boiling, much like the committee, when it should have been simmering. Evie slipped it on to the resting shelf. Flowers? Dressings?

  She returned to her stool in the silence that had fallen, but she barely noticed because there was something nudging her memory. The wind had been in her hair, she’d been very young, and had stooped to pull up something. Yes, it was in water. It was something her mother needed for Grandfather, who was . . . What? That’s right. He was hurt in a fall in Hawton Pit. Yes, she felt again the water running down her arm as she pulled up something. Her feet were wet, sinking into . . . mud? Jack had hauled her out.

  Evie looked up now into the silence that still hung like a cloud. ‘The bog. We picked something, Mam, years ago, for your da. It was a plant, yellow. We picked some, kept some, sold some.’ Her mam was staring at her, then she smiled. ‘Sphagnum moss, that’s what we need.’

  They all looked at one another. Captain Richard said, ‘Moss, did you say? For the vases?’

  Her mam smiled at him, and handed the car back to Tim. ‘Not for the vases, Captain Richard, but it’s what we used as dressings when times were hard. Aye, pet, you’re quite right. I should have thought of it, but I’m too tired to think these days.’ Her eyes were sunken and dark, emphasising her words. She continued, ‘There are sphagnum bogs out behind Stunted Tree Hill. Evie, you’re a canny bairn, you must have been really young and somehow you’ve hoyed it out of your memory.’

  Dr Nicholls was slapping the table. Evie did wish people would leave it alone. What with the tapping, the slopping and now the slapping, the poor old thing was getting a good bashing today. His face was alight as he said, ‘Good God alive, of course, yes. They’ve been using it a lot in Canada just recently. I read a medical paper on it, the other day. It has perfect absorption, it’s like a sponge and can soak up, oh, twenty times its own weight. Scotland is the main supplier, but if you say you’ve used it . . .? I never connected it with here. You say it’s here, definitely?’ He was rubbing his hands, and Matron was beaming. The dogs had woken, and jumped down to settle in front of the ranges.

  Evie’s mam removed the car from Tim again and hid it in the fold of her plump arm so that he tugged at her, and left Captain Richard in peace. ‘Yes, I do say it’s here, you’ve just heard me, haven’t you. Or are you having trouble with your hearing, Dr Nicholls?’

  He laughed, everyone did. Captain Richard said, ‘He’s deaf, is he? I didn’t know that.’

  Veronica snapped, ‘Do shut up, darling.’

  Evie smiled at her mam, loving her. Susan continued, ‘The thing is, can we collect enough? It needs to be picked clean of all bits, dried, then placed in muslin bags with room to let the moss expand, and there you have your dressing. It’s naturally sterile some say, and worked a treat for us, but you’ve sterilisers, so use those to be quite sure. How could I have forgotten?’ She raised her hand to her forehead.

  Captain Richard poured himself more tea. The teapot lid wobbled. Mr Harvey reached across Dr Nicholls and held it down. Richard smiled his thanks. ‘Sphagnum is Greek for moss. All rather interesting really . . .’

  ‘No it’s not, Richard,’ Veronica said, her voice becoming a shout as she shoved her VAD uniform sleeves up. Captain Richard ignored her, and finished pouring, placing the teapot within Evie’s reach. She shook her head as Veronica continued to shout, ‘What is interesting is getting dressings into Easterleigh Hall by the quickest possible route. We’re being inundated with cas
ualties and for God’s sake, we still haven’t heard from Aub and he damn well promised to send a telegram every week so just be quiet and let the bloody Greeks go and Greek themselves.’

  There was total silence, again, until Matron said, ‘My, if that isn’t worthy of the playroom I don’t know what is.’

  Dr Nicholls roared with laughter, and Evie turned to him. ‘You can put that revolting pipe out and all. Don’t think I didn’t see you picking that piece of tobacco off your tongue and dropping it on Annie’s clean floor.’

  Mrs Moore took another biscuit. Evie saw. ‘You don’t need that. Dr Nicholls said you had to cut down.’ She stood, stared around, and then sat again. There’d been so many wounded, so many dead on the lists. Damn. Damn. Where were they?

  Mrs Moore finished her biscuit and gathered up another, patting Evie’s knee. Evie gripped her hand. She just had this feeling. There had been so many on the casualty lists, so many coming through their doors, needing their bandages, dying, crying. Matron straightened her shoulders and her vast breasts, her face drawn with exhaustion. In Evie’s pocket was the pencilled note from Grace she had received two days ago, sent via a VAD who had accompanied a Red Cross convoy to Newcastle.

  She had hoped it contained good news and that was so, in a way. Grace had enjoyed the crumbs; more would be welcome, but preferably in a single slab. She said that she and Jack had spoken and knew that their lives had moved on, that there was a nice American surgeon at the camp hospital, and Jack was happy with Tim and Millie. She and Jack both recognised there had been love, and that Evie was not to worry any more. She had added that she was to be Jack’s homing pigeon and convey news of his safety to his family at the end of each push, though she knew that Auberon telegraphed too. When she heard from Jack, she would also send a telegram. But the note had been written on 11th March. There had been, so far, no telegram.

  Captain Richard had made enquiries yesterday at Veronica’s insistence, and been told by his former adjutant Potty Potters that the Fusiliers had been decimated, that splinter groups had joined up with other regiments, that it was chaos but he would let him know any news when he had it. The general anxiety had risen.

  Matron said, ‘Do we have your undivided attention, Miss Evie Forbes?’ Evie realised that everyone was looking at her. ‘If so, perhaps I may continue, because you have just saved the day as you do annoyingly often.’ Matron’s smile was luminous and she did indeed continue while Evie forced herself to concentrate. ‘If you have used this moss before, Susan, and are familiar with the process, I will be relieved and delighted if you would lead a team out to the bog. I believe, Dr Nicholls, that the moss can hold exceptional amounts of pus and other liquid discharges, far more than cotton, and will therefore be invaluable.’

  Mrs Moore replaced a fourth biscuit, uneaten, and shuddered.

  Richard eased his left arm stump and nodded. ‘Excellent. This would mean that in due course the cotton can be used for armaments.’

  ‘Be quiet, Richard,’ Veronica snapped. It was all she seemed to be doing today.

  Evie released Mrs Moore’s hand and drank her tea which was almost cold, feeling proud of her mam as Susan said, ‘It’s excellent for burns, and the moss dressings don’t heat as much as the cotton. I’m sorry, I should have remembered it earlier.’

  ‘My dear, we haven’t needed them earlier.’ Matron said quietly, avoiding Evie and Veronica’s eyes. Mrs Moore squeezed Evie’s hand again.

  The next morning Evie patted Old Saul while the dogs yapped until Mr Harvey called them into the house. Evie then allowed Sergeant Briggs to hitch the horse up to the cart, which was jointly owned by her family and Simon’s. ‘Beautiful old boy,’ she murmured into his cream mane. Alongside Old Saul was a space for Grace’s mare, Sally, and the Manton cart, which Parson Edward Manton, Grace’s brother, had said he’d trot over. He arrived in a flurry, leaping from the cart. ‘So sorry I can’t stay to help, Evie. Parish business.’ He hoisted down his bicycle from the cart and tucked his trousers into his socks.

  Evie’s smile was the genuine article as she led him to the kitchen for a quick cup of coffee, sidestepping Annie and the scullery maids as they cleared breakfast, and Daisy who was after used tea leaves for the sweeping of the sitting room. The thought of dear Edward, with his two left feet, his wayward sense of direction and tendency to drift off into the heavenly ether, trying to help, was not comforting. Far better that he went about his hand-holding.

  Her smile died as Richard arrived, standing blocking the doorway to the central corridor. He shook his head. ‘No news is good news,’ he said, leaning on his walking stick and trying to throw his false leg forward without falling over. He had forbidden anyone to help. Relieved, she left Edward and Richard together and returned to the carts.

  Veronica was to drive her trap pulled by Tinker, with as many volunteers as she could cram in. The others would ride bicycles as far as Froggett’s farm and then hike round the base of the hill to the bogs. Harry Travers, with Captain Neave, who had been pronounced fit yesterday and would be returning to restricted military duties at the end of the week, would drive Sally’s cart and be responsible for stacking the hessian sacks of moss in it, while Evie’s da, who was on the back shift at the pit, and Ben, his marra, would drive Old Saul’s cart and stack it. Everyone else with two legs and two arms would gather up the moss from the pickers. The gatherers would include Stanhope, who had lost all his fingers when a hand bomb blew up too soon, and was dextrous with his thumbs. Sergeant Harris with the face mask and Captain Simmons without half a leg and his nose would heave the moss on to the carts.

  It took an hour to drive to the bog, Evie travelling with Captain Neave, and all the time the wind swirled. Along the verges the primroses struggled in the cold of early spring. In a few weeks there could be cowslips. The hawthorn blossom was about to emerge. Once there, the women hitched up their skirts, the men rolled up their trousers, and everyone removed their boots and waded out, barefoot. It was icy and slimy and Evie’s toes sank into the peat. She had left Mrs Moore and Annie to prepare luncheon. It was rabbit and bacon stew with herb dumplings, and tons of carrots, in line with Richard’s anti-extravagance initiatives. It was the same meal that Evie and Mrs Moore had provided the previous week, but if it helped Richard to feel he was breaking new ground by issuing orders about economy, building his confidence as a result, then they didn’t mind.

  Why should they trouble him with the fact that they occasionally added wine that Mr Harvey ‘rescued’ from Lord Brampton’s cellars as per Mr Auberon’s instructions, when last home at Christmas. He had the written permission in his desk should Lord Brampton visit and want to see the wine-cellar audit.

  Evie’s mam explained that they must just yank up the top layer. ‘Like this,’ she instructed. Evie reached into the bog, tugged at a clump of moss, pulled it up and wrung it out, just as her mam did and as she now remembered doing, with Jack at her side, bonny, bonny Jack. The water ran down her arms and into her sleeves. She threw the moss to the waiting collectors, feeling energy surging to replace that which had seeped from her as they had fed one another’s panic and anxiety. ‘Come on, Evie, you’re lagging behind,’ Captain Neave called from the cart. Jack was strong, he would live. She would believe that. She must.

  John Neave looked so much better and his shrapnel wounds had healed, his femur too, with Dr Nicholls removing the last of the splinters from near his spine a month ago, rendering him fit for service. Nicholls had kept him back for as long as he could, and had been heard to say to Matron that the boy had done his bit. The powers that be couldn’t afford the luxury of letting their experienced officers sit out the war, apparently. ‘You can just mind your own business, bonny lad,’ Evie retorted. ‘I’m a fast finisher.’

  She retied her shawl and set to with a will. She’d show him. Again and again she yanked out the moss, wringing it as dry as she could, feeling the debris scratching. It didn’t matter. She laughed across at Veronica, and then her mother, knowi
ng that there was a race on. She snatched a look at the piles. John Neave was shouting at her looking at the Forbes and Preston cart. ‘Come on, we’re losing.’ He was stacking her pile in the front of the cart, and Harry was piling more at the back. Her mam’s and the other volunteers’ harvest was going into the cart her da had charge of. She glanced over. Ben was gazing across the moor. ‘Thinking of your next painting, Ben?’ she called.

  ‘Aye, lass. I thought the servants’ hall could do with some brightening.’

  ‘You’re not far wrong,’ she replied, easing her back.

  John called, ‘Away with you, bonny lass. Fill that sack.’

  She and her da laughed. ‘You’re no Geordie, lad,’ Evie told him. ‘So try again.’

  John yelled, ‘Get a move on, old girl.’

  Her da called, ‘Much better.’

  Evie went back to work. The sun was creaking through the clouds, giving a weak warmth, but warmth nonetheless. They were moving along the bog, the carts keeping pace. Her hands were sore, but what did that matter? The moss was needed. Harry Travers called, ‘We’re winning, Evie. Keep going.’

  She straightened her back. ‘Easy for you, bonny lad. We’re the ones with cold feet, sore hands and wet sleeves.’ At last it was midday.

  They had sandwiches huddled in the lea of the Forbes’ cart, and it was as though they were sea-coaling, but instead of wet coal heaped in the cart, there was springy moss in the hessian sacks. Veronica said, ‘Mrs Green is setting out the apple store as a picking platform. Old Stan is replacing some of the roof felt with glass so it’ll heat up when there’s some sun and help dry it, and the draught when the opposing doors are open will help too. He’s also drawing up a rota for the moss to be turned by volunteers and patients who want to help. They will also pick it free of debris. Some of the villagers are coming up later today and tomorrow to start off the picking. Others are sewing gauze pockets. The best moss is for dressings, the intermediate for dysentery pads, splint pads, and we chuck the worst.’